The Bruises Of Insanity
by honeyyoushouldseemeinabowtie
Summary: Life for the Avengers was never going to be easy. They all knew that. But add lies, accidents, hidden love, murder and an unwilling ally to the mix, and the bruises of insanity will blossom very purple indeed.
1. Chapter One - Aglow

**'iya! So, obviously, I don't own Marvel. Marvel owns me. IT OWNS EVERYTHING.**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy this story, and I would _love _a review or two. Seriously, it would be appreciated so much.**

**Also, this story is about American people. Set in America. I'm English. So, if I make any mistakes, or they seem stereotyped, please let me know.**

**Same goes for if you spot any errors.**

**Thank you so so much.**

* * *

It was getting dark earlier, Tony mused, as he stood by one of the many huge windows of Stark Tower, his eyes unfocused as he absentmindedly stared at the blinking lights of the Chrysler Building, lit up in all its glory like a Christmas tree. Now, Tony was not one for pointing out the obvious, and as he reminded himself with a rather forced viciousness, of course it was getting dark earlier. It was November, closer and closer to winter with each passing day, and the nights were drawing in. Not even the city beneath him, the artificial hue of Manhattan's glaring, unceasing lights, could hold back the wave of nature that rolled over the skyline.

But then, he'd been less sharp recently. More shaky. _Like an old man_, he thought scornfully. To be honest with himself, though, they all had. The events Loki had caused, the terrible, terrible things he'd done, had shaken them all. Tony swore, if he ever got his hands on the bastard, he'd mur-

The elevator doors opened with a ching, announcing the arrival of Pepper, and he shook himself together so his eyes focused, and turned away from the window. She'd gone to get coffee. Tony was all in favour of just going downstairs and finding that rather wonderful coffee maker he'd got free for investing in the company, but Pepper had disagreed. "Who'd turn down the chance to go into Manhattan, only if for a coffee?" she'd said; Tony had volunteered himself as an example – after all, this was what this mock feud was about, right? – and she'd giggled, pushed him playfully and given him a light kiss before sauntering to the elevator with her elegant lilt, and disappearing behind the doors with a winning smile. God, he bet she'd broken hearts before he'd known her.

It had taken her exactly fifteen minutes and thirty two seconds to get the coffee, Tony confirmed to himself as he slipped a glance to his watch. _Yes, thirty two exactly_. He looked up and smiled a greeting. She moved towards him, handing him a paper Starbucks cup, which he took off her with murmured thanks and held tightly, the paper rough against his palms, letting the sudden warmth flood through his body. Pepper came and stood by him, taking a sip of her own coffee, and they both looked out at the view, standing in silence as they drank. The sky grew darker, washing over the city, and still the lights of Manhattan shone out. Tony checked his watch. Half past six.

"It's getting dark out," Tony offered as way of conversation, then immediately regretted it. _Urgh, dammit_._ Small talk_. He'd never done that, and Pepper knew. She grinned and punched him softly on the arm. "Well done, braniac," she chuckled, and Tony felt his cheeks grow hot. "It's called winter."

He chugged down his coffee in one go, swallowing with a gulp, and shook the feeling off. _Stupid, stupid. _He was even slipping in front of other people now. Idiot. "Sorry, Pepper," he mumbled. "After all that stuff with Loki, well, I'm a bit slow." He offered an apologetic smile.

Pepper sighed affectionately. "No need to apologise, silly."

She leant her head on his shoulder as she finished her coffee. Tony threw his paper cup into the bin, and missed, which earned him raised eyebrows from Pepper, who after finishing hers, placed both cups neatly in the bin. When she was next to him again, Tony kissed her gently, pulling her towards him. She responded, their mouths moving against one another. His hand went to the small of her back, clutching at the thin material of her shirt. Her own hand ran small circles on his back, which soothed him somewhat. Then her hands went considerably lower, and Tony was suddenly anything but calm. Flushed, he pulled her firmly against him and she responded eagerly, their lips mashing against one another with a new found frenzy. They sank to the floor, hands roaming and tongues lashing wildly, until breathing became a priority and they finally pulled apart. Chests heaving for breath, Pepper grinned wickedly and grabbed Tony's hand. "Shall we?" she said huskily, motioning her head in the direction of their bedroom, and Tony was only too happy to oblige.

Manhattan was aglow for them, that night.

Afterwards, Pepper went to sleep with her head tucked in the crook of Tony's arm whilst he lay awake and stared at the ceiling. After his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he could spot bumps in the paint on the ceiling. He'd been having trouble sleeping, lately. When he finally fell asleep, his eyes would close, and Loki would be there, laughing at him, while chaos and havoc rained down all around him, and all his comrades screamed in pain, wide eyed, begging him to save them, or put them out of their misery – it changed night to night; then he'd awake – his eyes would snap open and his breath would catch, and he'd be in his own bed with his own Pepper lying asleep beside him. No nightmares for her. She smiled and snuffled in her sleep, and was totally unaware of Tony as he sweated and panted, and tried to forget and go back to sleep. Yet still, the dreams would be there, lingering patiently, lurking at the frayed edges of his consciousness.

Tony sighed and clambered out of bed, easing Pepper away from him. He wrapped a sheet around him, shivering slightly at the sudden change in temperature. He rubbed his eyes as he padded softly out of the room and pressed the elevator button. It snapped to life and he punched in a number. The elevator hummed complacently as it swiftly sped upwards. The doors slid open and Tony stepped out. He was back in the room he had been in earlier, when he'd been contemplating the darkness. Manhattan was still lit up. The city that never slept. It was just as well, really. You couldn't see the stars, and so the city made up for it. The people of Manhattan had no need for the stars.

JARVIS' voice interrupted his inner monologue. "You're up late, sir."

"Can't sleep, JARVIS," Tony replied, concentrating on the view.

"I see. My condolences, sir."

Tony laughed. "You're the most sympathetic computer in existence."

"You made me that way, sir," came JARVIS' ever patient reply.

"That's true, JARVIS. That's very true."

* * *

It was late when Natasha got home. She'd been doing a bit of work for S.H.I.E.L.D. – nothing too important, just keeping tabs on a growing criminal organization – and she was tired. She made herself a drink, relishing the warmth that flooded through her body, and made her way over to the radiator. Light fingers skimmed the surface. Cold. She sighed. She should have known, really; the heating automatically turned off at ten. Natasha was perfectly aware she should know little things like when the heating turned off, and when to buy fresh milk, but she found herself forgetting constantly. Life with S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers hardly left time for mundane trivialities.

She stumbled into the other room, flicking the light switch on. Her pyjamas lay on a squashy blue chair. People seemed to think she was one for camisoles and sexy nighties, but Natasha favoured comfort over either. She slipped out of her suit, and pulled her pyjamas on – jim-jams, as Clint teasingly called them – snuggling into the warmth. Flopping down into the chair they had just occupied, she reached for the remote and flicked through the channels. Nothing was on, just a bunch of cheesy horror movies, except the news. She paused on that and half listened as she took another sip of her coffee.

Natasha was sleepy, or she never would have slipped up. She was a spy, and had received first grade training. But she was half asleep, and his footsteps were so very light, and-

"BOO!"

She jumped, startled, and instantly rolled off the chair and sprang to her feet, gun in her hand, her expression fierce. Then suddenly, it changed to one of puzzlement.

"Clint?" she stammered.

And it was him. He wasn't in his suit, just a light blue shirt that showed off his bulging, sinewy muscles, and well cut jeans. Simple, yet well dressed, as always. It was one of his qualities she admired, amongst many. Because that was all. She just admired him. Nothing more. _Just keep telling yourself that_, thought Natasha with a long suffering inward sigh.

Clint grinned at her. "Like your pyjamas, Natasha."

She sighed, lowering her gun. "Shut up. It's not funny. You frightened me."

"What? Thought you were a spy, with top training and all that?" he sniggered. "You must have rubbish standards over in Russia, then."

She glared at him. He was only teasing, that she knew, but Natasha wasn't in the mood. She was tired. She'd had a long evening, and she wasn't ready to put up with Clint's practical jokes.

"I could have put a bullet in your brain," she told him.

Clint shrugged, his eyes steady. He had such lovely eyes; it always felt like they were boring into her, trying to extract her soul. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but not unpleasant. She'd been heartbroken when Loki had changed his eyes, and so glad to have them back to their familiar, natural blue, flecked with so many different colours. His eyes were a riot, and she loved them.

_Shut up, Natasha_, she thought, gritting her teeth.

Clint was still watching her. Finally, he spoke.

"But you wouldn't," he said.

"That's not the point!" she snapped. "You shocked me. My training taught me to react quickly when I'm shocked, so the enemy can't get the upper hand. You should know that; you got taught this shit, too. If I hadn't been so tired, I could have shot straight away."

He looked at the floor. "Sorry, Natasha," he muttered.

She studied him as his eyes were averted. "It's okay," she said finally. "Are you just here to pull a joke on me, or what though, because I'm really tired and-"

"I-I, uh, n-n-no." He was stammering. "I wanted to stay with you tonight."

Natasha watched him through narrowed eyes as he looked up, desperately trying to ignore her increasing heartbeat. When she didn't reply, he flushed and said, "If that's okay, I mean."

"Okay," she said, before she could stop herself. _Damn_. "But I want to sleep, okay?" she added sternly.

"Sure," Clint replied. Slowly, he inched towards her. She was suddenly acutely aware of the lack of distance between them. Clint reached out and gently stroked her cheek. She shivered from delight as he continued, his skin rough against her own. The blood was pounding in her ears like a bomb. He leant towards her, and _oh god this is it_, and –

"-just had word in that there are some casualties, none dead so far, but some missing still-"

"Stop!"

Natasha ran to the television. Clint looked a mixture of confused and pissed off, but she only had eyes for the screen. The scene cut to a crashed airplane, survivors being hauled out in the wreckage. The reporter continued as a voice over. "The plane, which set out at 1:45 this afternoon, was going to England today, and crashed partway there."

The reporter carried on speaking, but Natasha wasn't listening. She turned to Clint, aghast. He looked puzzled.

"Natasha?" he asked, worried. "What's wrong?"

Her eyes were scared, and Clint knew Natasha well. He knew when she was covering emotion, and when she was faking it. And right now, she looked genuinely terrified.

"What's wrong?" he repeated. "Nat, talk to me."

It still took her a moment to reply. She looked into his eyes, as puzzled and worried as hers were scared.

"You remember, Steve was going on holiday?" she whispered. Clint had to strain to catch her words.

He answered in the affirmative. "But what of it?"

Tears were spilling down her cheeks now. Without realising, he moved to comfort her. Something in her snapped when she was upset. She waved him away, fiercely independent as always, even when she was crying. Her chest heaved with sobs, but she managed to choke her words out:

"He wanted to go, he said. Reliving his old moments, probably. Or trying to replace them. Either way, Clint, he was going to England."

And suddenly cold realisation washed over Clint. Natasha's face was pained as she spat out her final words.

"Steve was on that plane."


	2. Chapter Two - Panic

HI MY ONE FOLLOWER AND ONE REVIEWER. I LOVE YOU.

So, here's my next chapter. (You'd best both be cheering now.) I'm sure I won't always update this quickly, but I'm on a roll at the moment.

To anyone else: if you do read this, please do let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is appreciated, too!

Forgot to mention before, but please let me know if anyone is out of character.

Hope you enjoy.

* * *

"Sir, Agent Romanoff is calling."

Tony peeled his eyes open, blinking away the sleep. His watch read **10 A.M.** in red block writing. Beside him, Pepper snuffled softly in her sleep, clutching at the sheets in her hand. The hum of the city, as familiar as a nursery rhyme, buzzed away in the background, as JARVIS waited patiently for a response.

"Put her through." Tony eased his way out of bed, groaning with exhaustion, and threw on a shirt and jeans, as JARVIS' indiscernible cogs whirred. _God only knows what she wants_, Tony thought. He and Natasha had a...well, rocky relationship, was the nicest thing to call it. He snatched up his phone and stole a glance at Pepper. Still asleep. Natasha's voice came swimming through on the other end.

"Stark," she said, as way of greeting.

"Ah, Romanoff. How nice to hear from you again. Tell me, why have you got me out of bed at this time?" Of course, he knew this wasn't early, but there was a streak in Tony – callous, some called it; he preferred volatile, it sounded more enigmatic – that required, demanded him to tease, to annoy, to push someone until they snapped.

Agent Romanoff's voice was clipped. "Be serious. This is no time for your tasteless jokes, Stark. Steve went on holiday, you remember."

"Yeah. What about it?" God, this was a waste of time.

"The plane he was on...it's crashed."

"Holy fuck." Tony took a sharp intake of breath, suddenly serious. "Natasha, he's an idiot, but – is he alright?"

A pause. "I don't know," she said finally. Her voice was stoic. After all, she was a spy. "I saw it on the news. There was a number for friends and family. I rang it, gave them his details. They'll keep us posted."

"Shiiiit," Tony breathed. "Do Clint and Bruce know?"

"Clint does. I'm ringing Bruce after you." If there was anything about how Clint knew exactly, that she didn't want Tony to know, she gave no sign of it.

"Shit," Tony said again, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. "And Thor's still in Shakespeare's abode, many light years away, etc, etc, all that crap?"

He could almost hear her trying to contain her smile on the other end. "Shut up, Tony. Yes, he is. I guess he'll come to us when he's ready."

"Mmm. Waiting's never been my style."

_Neither was following, as you told Steve._

_Shut up, Tony._

"I know." Natasha's voice cracked, betraying hints of emotion. "None of us are followers."

There was a silence for a few moments in which Tony formulated all the insults for Steve he could possibly concoct just as soon as they knew he was well. Then Natasha said, "Tony...He'll be alright, won't he?"

Tony had never been a liar, so he told her the truth. "I hope so," he said quietly.

A sharp exhale of breath came down the other end. "I'd best go."

"Got to tell our big green friend, I guess. Just make sure the news doesn't get him angry. We don't want another global crisis or catastrophe on our hands."

She didn't laugh. Just as well, really. The joke was feeble, and any attempt to pretend it to be otherwise would have sounded false.

"Yeah," she said. Suddenly, her voice was brisk and business like, all traces of emotion gone. "I'll keep you updated. Bye, Stark."

"Seeya," he murmured, but she'd already hung up.

Pepper stirred, blinking into the light. "Who were you talking to?" she asked sleepily.

"Natasha Romanoff," he answered. "Steve – you know, Steve Rogers – has been in a plane crash."

"Oh God." She sat bolt upright, suddenly wide awake. "Is he okay?"

"We don't know yet." Tony let out a sigh he hadn't even realised had been building up.

Pepper was quiet as she stretched and got out of bed. "You go shower and everything," she told him. "I'll make you some breakfast."

"Thanks." He kissed her gently and went to shower.

The cold water rinsing over him woke him up, concentrating his fuzzy mind. He blinked water out of his eyes as it ran down his face like teardrops.

The smell of toast greeted him as the elevator doors pinged open and he stepped out. Pepper was at the table, hair mussed and half a slice of toast on her plate. She chewed quickly and swallowed, passing him a plateful. He sat down and tried to eat, but the toast turned to mush in his mouth, and the crusts stuck in his throat. Still, he chewed it down, since Pepper had made it. He was worried, more worried than he'd care to admit. Steve could be an asshole, but conflict had driven them together, and they had formed a tentative friendship. And as annoying as the guy could be, he was a friend.

Pepper passed him coffee, which he swallowed in three gulps, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. She watched him through tired eyes. "You're going to Agent Romanoff's apartment." It wasn't a question. "You need them around you."

"I'm fine, Pepper." It came out quicker than he'd intended, and sounded tenser than he wanted.

She smiled tiredly. "And that's a clue that you're not," she said. "Go."

"Alright," he sighed, secretly quite pleased that she wanted him to. It gave him an excuse to go. Tony wasn't an unkind man, but he was loathe to admit he might ever need someone's help, other than his own.

Natasha's apartment was on the outskirts of town, and by the time Tony arrived, everyone else was there. Bruce was quiet and subdued, offering a murmured hello and nothing else. Natasha was suffering the effects of a sleepless night, bags under her rapid eyes, and kept fiercely blinking, as if desperately trying to hold tears at bay. Clint's face was a mask, but his clothes were crumpled, as if he hadn't changed in a while. He had a reassuring hand on Natasha's shoulder.

Tony sunk down in a chair, putting his head in his hands as they sat in tense silence. He could feel his muscles groaning at him. _A massage is in order, I think_. Damn stress.

At last, Clint broke the spell. "I can't stand this goddamn silence," he muttered. Natasha's eyes were swimming with tears not yet spilled as she looked up at him. He started pacing back and forth frantically, every so often reaching behind him as if grabbing his bow for reassurance, and started to outwardly panic even more when it wasn't there.

"Calm down, Clint," Natasha said soothingly, standing up and rubbing circles on his back. That reminded Tony of the other night with Pepper. _Goddamn_, he told himself. _This is no time to think of that_.

Clint scrunched his face up. "Sorry, Nat," he said softly. "It's just this waiting – it's fucking unbearable. I'm going out for a walk. Anyone coming?"

Natasha jumped to her feet. "I'll come." God, why didn't those two just snog and have done with.

Bruce shook his head. "I'm good, thanks. I'll wait here with Tony, in case of news." He was unusually quiet today, Tony noted with a frown. Mind you, he was probably just worried. They all were. Clint was right. The waiting was unbearable. They were people of action. Waiting was not in their nature.

* * *

There was a definite chill in the air as Clint and Natasha paced the streets. A sense of foreboding, almost. They strode together, almost touching, and Natasha cursed herself for thinking of a thing like that at a time like this. Clint's eyes were set straight ahead of them, and it gave her a chance to study him. Then he turned to her, and she dropped her eyes, embarrassed.

"Mind if we stop off at my apartment? I want to change."

She nodded her assent and they turned the street. A teen was on the corner, backpack at his feet. He wolf whistled at Natasha, who ignored it. She was used to it; occupational hazard, really. But Clint turned and glared in his direction.

"Leave her alone," he said threateningly.

"Whoa." The kid took a step back. "God, sorry man."

Clint shot a glance at Natasha. A ghost of a smile traced her lips as the kid stared sullenly at the ground. She touched his arm in silent appreciation as they entered the building. He knew, of course, that she didn't need him to protect her. But there was something about the fact that he wanted to that made her insides tingle.

The elevator came to life with a gurgle, its doors creaking open as if just existing was too much effort. Clint motioned towards the elevator.

"After you, madam," he said charmingly.

She flashed him a smile. "Thank you, sir," she giggled and he gave her a lopsided grin.

The elevator chugged up to Clint's floor and they stepped out on the threadbare carpet. They were just temporary living conditions, thank God – he was holding out for a nice little apartment he had his eye on in the same block as Natasha's. She wandered behind him, staring absently at the dirt. She didn't make any comment, and neither did he. They had both seen far worse.

Clint's apartment was bare and sparsely furnished. He apologised for the conditions and with a wry smile, he told Natasha to make herself as comfortable as she could while she waited. As he went to freshen up, Natasha paced about and picked up a dog-eared book, idly flicking through. The corner of a page was folded down and she skimmed through it, smiling a little, imagining his eyes and hands on the book as hers were now. _Ah. _A kiss scene. Her cheeks flushed. God, she hoped he wasn't thinking about kissing anyone but her.

_Love is for children, Natasha._

She put the book carefully back, and took a seat on a chair. The back was rigid, the cushion hard, and she was wriggling uncomfortably when her phone buzzed. It was Tony. She accepted the call and pressed it to her ear. "Hi."

"Natasha, we've had a call. They've found Steve."

"Oh god." She jumped to her feet. "Is he okay?"

Clint poked his head around the door. "Stark," she mouthed. He nodded and disappeared back into the bathroom.

"A broken arm and leg – nothing serious, I mean, he's lucky to be alive – but they're taking him to the hospital for a check-up. He wouldn't be alive if he wasn't so fucking, well, superhuman. Can you get here? We need to be there by half twelve."

"Consider me on my way," she told him, as Clint walked in wearing fresh clothes.

"See you soon." Stark ended the call.

"What's going on, Tasha?" Clint was straight to the point.

"They've found Steve." She yawned her words, betraying her lack of sleep. "My place?"

He grinned. "It'd be my pleasure, Nat."

* * *

Odin had always been a strict father. Loki remembered frequent scoldings, and now and then, when his father really lost his temper, the occasional beating. He still remembered crying into the night, whilst Thor stared at him, wide eyed in the darkness. He'd often done something, of course – after all, they didn't call him the god of mischief for nothing – and when he hadn't, he'd wondered if he'd was being told off simply for being him. Loki had always been so strange and pale, scrawny, with that ebony black hair. He'd been a fey child, with quick eyes and a manipulative streak. Thor, even as a child, had been more tanned, blond and strong, better in the eyes of Asgard. His powers far outshined Loki's, who was known merely for his mischievousness, and was branded crude nicknames from an early age because of it.

The muzzle bit into his skin, bringing him back to the present. It was removed for him to eat and drink the sparse rations they brought to him, and the rest of the time it encased his face like a tomb, as he stood alone. Thor would come down now and then, when he could 'slip away' – oh, how _generic; _really, couldn't he think of a better excuse not to see Loki – and try to appease him. But Loki was angry. He did not want to learn how to be cleansed of his sins. He wanted his revenge, and he had been denied it yet again.

Yes, Loki was very angry indeed.

Later, he heard footsteps on the dank stone steps, echoing into the dungeon. It was Thor – he could tell by the sound. He'd grown up with that boy, now a man. He knew him inside out; like the back of his hand; Loki knew him better than he knew himself.

And Loki knew another thing. He could never tell him, never admit it, by Thor was his star. Thor was the light in the unceasing darkness around him. But he had lost even that, now. He had lost Thor, and without him, Loki didn't see the point in going on.

The object of his thoughts appeared at the bars of his cage, beautiful, strong hands gripping the bars. Loki wanted those hands on him, those arms holding him. He longed to see Thor smile again, but his brother's face was crumpled as he started his usual dialogue, his tone weary. "Loki, I am so sorry. I want to take that muzzle off you; I hate it. It makes you look like some kind of animal, and oh, brother, you are _not_. Alas, only the Allfather can. Oh, my Loki. Why can't you just repent? We want you back, our mother and father do, and none more than I. But you must cleanse yourself of your sins, and start anew. Only then, can you join us as one of the Asgardians."

There were a hundred things Loki would have said to his brother if he could, but instead, it was his greatest tragedy that only two of Thor's words mattered to him.

They haunted him during the long night, painting themselves in colours before his eyes.

_My Loki._


	3. Chapter Three - Forgetting

**Just a quick note: thanks to all my reviewers/followers/favouriters! You guys rock.**

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, we may have to crash land, but please keep calm, we will inform you if life jackets and oxygen masks become an emergency. I repeat, please keep calm."

Steve watched the air hostess through narrowed eyes. God, she was good. She kept her composure as she lied to them; but still, everyone was panicking. Steve seemed to be the only calm one there. He observed her as she spoke quietly to a member of staff. Finally, she nodded and turned to them, clearing her throat.

She reminded him of Peggy.

"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, could you put on your life jackets please, we are going to have to crash land. May I remind you, do not open your jacket until you are outside of the aircraft. You should be familiar with the safety precautions in an event such as this...'

She carried on talking, but Steve wasn't listening now. He donned his own life jacket as the people around him bustled to do the same. He was still strangely calm; perhaps because he knew his chance of dying was slim compared to a normal human's.

He remembered the last time he had been on a plane that was going to crash. He remembered Peggy whispering words to calm him down.

He queued up to jump, when suddenly the plane lurched and people started to slide, their faces scared. The panic was infectious.

The same air hostess was babbling away. _Because words from a pretty woman will really do us all some good_, thought Steve with a twinge of bitterness.

People started to jump. Soon, it was his turn.

He hit the water, feeling his limbs smash on the rocks and the pain ricochet through.

As he spiralled into the darkness, he thought of Peggy.

* * *

'_Peggy...'_

_'I'm here.__' Her voice trembled._

_His own was calmer than he felt. 'I'm gonna need a rain check on that dance.__'_

_'All right. A week next Saturday at the Stork Club,' she said._

_'You've got it.__'_

_'Eight o'clock on the dot. Don't you dare be late. Understood?' She sounded stern, and he almost wanted to laugh. _

_Instead, he just said, 'You know, I still don't know how to dance.__'_

_'I'll show you how. Just be there.__'_

_He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. 'We'll have the band play something slow.__I'd hate to step on your...__'_

_Then, there was nothing._

* * *

Steve awoke to murmured voices and a pair of large eyes peering down anxiously at him.

"Peggy?" he asked groggily.

A soft voice replied. "No Steve, it's Natasha."

Of course. Peggy's eyes were brown. This girl's were green.

"Where am I?" he said, trying to sit up.

An almost indiscernible crease appeared in the girl's forehead. "You're in hospital. You were in a plane crash, you remember?"

Steve's head was swimming. "I don't know," he said finally. "I don't remember a plane."

The girl opened her mouth to speak but another voice cut across her. A man's. He spoke with a snarl. "You'd best goddamn be kidding after the fucking terror you put us through, you punk."

The speaker came into Steve's view. "Howard?" he asked dubiously. "Howard Stark?"

"No," the man spat. "Stark Jr. Tony."

Steve shook his head. "Sorry, don't know you."

The red headed girl who'd called herself Natasha placed a soothing hand on Tony's arm as he shook with furious emotion. Steve thought he saw another man, with short brown hair and wide shoulders frown a little at the contact.

He motioned his head over to same man. "Think you're making him jealous, ma'am," he said, and both Natasha and the brown haired man flushed pink.

"Glad to see you've not lost your sense of humour," snapped Tony.

Steve was really rather annoyed now. He had a thumping headache, his throat was dry, and he just wanted to go to sleep, and all these strangers kept bothering him and telling him nonsensical shit about a plane crash. _I wonder if this is the hospital for the insane_, Steve thought drowsily.

Still, he kept his voice polite. "Could you leave now, please?" he asked them. "I'm rather tired."

The angry looking man – what was his name again? – slammed his fist into the wall and stormed out, followed by a short, scruffy haired man whom Steve hadn't noticed before. It was just the brown haired man and the girl. She sighed and said quietly to the man, "I guess we'd best go."

He nodded and threw a jacket around his shoulders. "Sure."

"Wait a minute, please."

A nurse was bustling into the room. She was incredibly stereotypical – stern looking and a little pudgy. Steve rolled his eyes. He wasn't a rude man, as a general rule, but his limits had been pushed.

"Oh god, not more of you. What are you doing here, nurse?"

She pursed her lips in response. "I'm a nurse," she said, "And this is a hospital. It is where nurses tend to be."

"I'm in a hospital?" Steve lunged out of bed, staring around him at the whitewashed walls. The two men who had gone appeared at the door.

"Yes," she said, her forehead wrinkling. "Why don't you get some sleep now? I'm sure you'll feel better when you wake up."

"I've been trying to," grumbled Steve, but he slid back under the sheets and stared expectantly at them.

"Bye," he said pointedly.

Their faces were interesting to watch. Two looked blank, one worried, and one furious. They all said their goodbyes in varied voices and the nurse followed them out, shutting the door behind her.

Steve breathed a sigh of relief, and pulled the covers over his head as the footsteps faded away.

But he couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned, tangling the sheets around his body. He had this uncomfortable feeling, almost like an itch, right under his skin. Those people had known him, or so it had seemed, and he had felt a spark of recognition inside himself, yet he was sure that he had never seen them before.

* * *

Clint normally enjoyed the subway. He was sure he was in the minority with that one, but he had always loved the bustle, the noise, the jolt as the carriage took off. Today, however, he wasn't so keen on the idea. Stark had taken off with a wink in his sports car, and Bruce had made his excuses and ambled off. Clint shook his head. He was sure that Doctor Banner simply _went_, with no idea on his actual decision. He knew Bruce was incredibly clever, but all the same, he did appear to be incredibly absentminded.

It was a warm day, and his skin was covered in a sheen of sweat. The carriage was packed with people, and he was pressed up against Natasha – not that he, or his body for that matter, were complaining about that. God no, the complete opposite. He only hoped she hadn't noticed. Judging by her distant look, she either hadn't noticed or was electing to ignore it; whichever it was, it was probably the smartest decision.

The carriage rumbled to a sudden halt. It was their stop. He shepherded Natasha onto the platform, awakening her from her reverie. Even though she had been lost to her thoughts, she regained herself with her usual agility, walking smartly. _Bloody fabulous spy, she is_, thought Clint. _Even her walk doesn't give anything away_.

As they walked to Nat's apartment, Clint was the one to lose himself in his thoughts. It'd been pretty shocking to see Steve not recognise them like that, and he knew it'd hit Natasha badly, although she'd never show it. But she and Steve had become good friends whilst they fought together, thrown together in mayhem, and it was only Steve's occasionally tiring chivalry that stopped Clint being jealous.

The nurse had told them that Steve was suffering from minor amnesia, and should be recovering from it soon. Clint only hoped that was true. Right now, Thor was on Asgard, out of their reach, and the last thing they needed was another one of the Avengers down.

* * *

Thor hadn't realised anyone had been talking to him until Sif had laid a gentle hand on his arm and shook it, bringing him back to the present. He jumped a little then cursed himself for the display of weakness. It was a chink in his armour, and Thor never liked to be seen as weak. He inwardly grimaced.

Sif chuckled lightly, the dim light from the candles dappled on her features. The rest of the Asgardians carried on around them, the hundreds of conversations buzzing in Thor's ears like tiny pests. They were far too preoccupied with the feast to notice the solitary quietness of the man and woman in the midst of it all. Thor couldn't even remember what the feast was for, and was not sure he cared. Loki was all he could remember and care about, now.

He turned to Sif. "I – Could you repeat that?"

"I was asking you how Loki was," she said.

"Oh. I am sorry; I was miles away."

"Thinking of him, I have no doubt." Her tone was light, but her voice betrayed her with a slight tremble.

"Yes," Thor admitted. "I was. I miss him terribly, Sif."

"I am sure," Sif answered, her eyes wandering to the table. "How is he?"

"He is well as can be expected," said Thor carefully.

They both knew he was lying, but Sif simply nodded. Suddenly, Thor slammed his fist onto the table, making the plates and goblets clatter. A few of the Asgardians around them looked up in alarm, and Thor noticed his mother, Frigga, casting a worried glance at him, but most of them simply carried on. They were oblivious – oblivious to the creases around Thor's eyes, to the way he carried himself, shoulders sagging, as though he had given up. And he had, really. Loki had always mattered to him more than anyone else, and look what Thor had done to him.

Under the circumstances, one might have cried, but Thor was not prone to displays of such weakness. Instead, he stormed out, his scarlet cloak flying out behind him. Sif cast Frigga an apologetic look and scurried out after Thor.

He wished he had Mjölnir with him. He felt like slamming it repeatedly into the walls, watching the cracks spread. He'd never been a crier, even when he was young, but now tears of anger misted in his eyes.

Thor felt a soft hand grab at his arm and swivelled on his heel. Sif. She smiled a little at him and he didn't return the gesture, but he knew she understood.

"May I come and see Loki with you?" she asked.

"I thought you did not like him," answered Thor, a frown spreading across his forehead.

Sif shrugged. "One does not have to like another to pity them," she said quietly.

"True." Thor nodded. "This way."

He led the way to the dungeons, flexing his fingers as they walked. Sif was silent. The guard who habitually stood at the entrance nodded his assent and they climbed down the winding, slippery steps.

Loki was sat in the middle of his cell, the muzzle tight around his face as usual. He should have been used to the sight of it, but it still pained Thor to see his brother bound like an animal. Loki looked up as they walked in; with one swift eye movement he registered them both. Thor was sure that without the muzzle his lip would have curled in disgust as he rested his eyes on Sif, whose own was set determinedly.

"Hello, Loki," she said, crouching on the floor to look at him. Loki moved to the other end of the cage, letting her know just what he thought of that. She chewed at her lip, but continued. "I hope you feel as well as is possible under the circumstances. We all miss you." Loki turned his head away in response.

Thor heard footsteps on the stairs. His father and the guard emerged into the room, the guard holding food and drink. Odin entered the cell, slipping Loki's muzzle off, and handed him the food. Thor was relieved that the muzzle was off, if only for a short time, and watched as Loki bit into the bread, trying, Thor knew, not to look like he was as hungry as he was.

Thor turned to his father, Sif and the guard. "May I talk to Loki alone for a while, Father?" he asked, and his eyes were full of sadness.

Odin's own were grave as he nodded. "Inform the guard when you are done, my son."

Thor nodded too, and the tone was sombre as they filed out of the room.

Loki swallowed a crust as his brother sat down next to him, and kept his eyes on the ground as Thor carefully studied him. There were still pale scars and bruises on his face, but otherwise Loki looked well. At last, he turned to Thor and said wearily, "What do you want, Thor?"

In a very small voice, Thor replied. "I – I just wanted to talk to you. I haven't in such a long time, and I miss you."

"And whose fault is that?" Loki's voice was tinged with bitterness.

The tears were pooling in his eyes again. "It is mine," Thor said, his voice breaking with emotion. "I am so sorry, Loki. I am so sorry."

The tears ran freely over his cheeks now as he grasped at his brother's clothes. Loki looked disgusted.

"Pull yourself together, Thor," he snapped. That only made Thor cry more. He laid his head on Loki's chest, sobbing with a fervent passion he did not know he possessed. He had been strong for so long, kept himself together and held his head high, but now the barriers had broken and the river of sadness came pouring out.

Between wrenching sobs he repeated one word, over and over again.

"Loki."

His brother made no move to push him away, but he did not touch him either. Thor longed for Loki to cradle him, to stroke his hair, kiss him, and soothe him like they had done for each other when they were young. But Asgard had taken Thor and made him their golden boy, and the person he loved most of all had been left behind.

Thor supposed that even gold could be polluted.


End file.
